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PLANTATION 

MEMORIES 

AND 

OTHER POEMS 





















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PLANTATION 

MEMORIES 

AND OTHER POEMS 


By 

CLELIA P. McGOWAN 



THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY 

CHICAGO PHILADELPHIA TORONTO 


7^5 3sz,s~ 

.A 2, +&. Ts" 

/a$ 


Copyright, 1923, by 
The John C. Winston Company 

All rights reserved 



PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. 

JAN 16 ’24 

©C1A7G5716 



CONTENTS 

Memories 

PAGE 

Memories. 1 

Maum Venus. 2 

Daddy Denis. 3 

Clarinda. 4 

Daddy Sharper. 6 

Big John. 8 

Chloe. 10 

Other Poems 

To a District Nurse. 15 

Night-Watch. 16 

By Night. 17 

Remembrance. 18 

Chopin. 19 

Lucrezia Bori. 21 

The Stars Look Down on Us. 23 

Spring Tide in the Marsh. 24 

A Fancy. 25 

Pomegranate. 26 

An April Day. 28 

The Cardinal Bird. 29 

Flower Voices. 30 

Wild Roses. 31 


v 























CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Mist. 32 

Night’s Diamond Ring. 33 

The Moon Slips through the Clouds. 34 

At Sunset. 35 

Trees in Winter. 36 

Parnassia...... 37 

The Swamp. 38 

St. Helena Island. 39 

Stuartia.. •.. 40 

Dreaming. 41 

Why Summon Sleep?. 42 

The Long-Leaf Pines. 43 

Creation. 44 

Life. 45 

Dust to Dust. 46 

Translation. 47 

The Cypress Swamp. 48 

Mistletoe. 49 

Magnolia Gardens. 50 


vi 





















PLANTATION MEMORIES 


TO THE FAITHFUL AND BELOVED FRIENDS AND 
GUARDIANS OF MY CHILDHOOD; 

Venus Smalls and Denis Mack. 


Memories 

As I review these memories 
Stored in my heart, 

Feeling wells up from depths 
Below the depths of tears— 

When history shall be writ, 

Out of the heavy shadows on those years 
A steadfast light will shine, 

As when Grief wears a smile, 

The love between “Mauma” 

And those she called “my chile.” 


1 


Maum Venus 


My mauma cuddles me 
Against her ample breast, 

Where I find peace and rest; 

Her dusky presence, 

Wholesome as the night, 

Means all within my little world goes right: 

I stammer some confession of the day 
And quickly say, 

“I’m sorry, Mauma”— 

Her slight, slow-coming smile 
Absolves my sin, 

I hear her murmuring, “Das right, das right, 
my chile ”— 

****** 

She did not leave us through the dreary years 
“After the War”. 

When we needs must desert the old plantation, 
She grown too old to move, 

My father gave her land, 

All that was left to give, 

While we, her four white “chillun”, 

Sent her the wherewithal to live. 

We helped to bury her, 

And honored her with tears 
Born of her rich devotion, 

Heaped up through all those years. 


2 


Daddy Denis 

The mill below the hill 
Our castle is: 

Adventure waits us there; 

A wholesome fear of danger 
Adds a zest; and best of all, 

There Daddy Denis rules supreme: 
From him we learn 
Manners, religion, law, 

And usefully to handle useful tools, 
Hammer, and plane, and saw. 

I read the testament 
Some sultry summer noon, 

His dinner hour, 

And as the power 
Of God’s eternal truth 
Shapes from my childish lips, 

His kindly eyes look far away, 

And he replies: 

“Ain’t I done tell you so, 

Lilia Missy? 

Ain’t I done tell you so?” 


3 


Clarinda 


“Why Clarinda!” My mother’s gentle voice 
Holds an unwonted tone. 

“Why Clarinda, I am ashamed of you, 

Have I not taught you 
That each human life 
Lies in God’s hands? 

And you come with this heathen cry 
That you are conjured, 

And are going to die!” 

The tall black woman 
Only sways and moans, 

“He’p me, my missus, he’p, 

I sho’ gwine die.” 

My mother swift becomes 
Avenging seer and prophetess. 

“Kneel here, Clarinda, 

Kneel here with me, and pray, 

That on us, black and white, 

God’s grace may fall.” 

Armed with a simple sedative, 

A counter charm, 

Blessed in God’s name, 

Clarinda seeks her home 
Controlled and comforted, 


4 


clArinda 


Yielding herself to sleep 
To this refrain: 

“Lord Jesus, bless my w’ite folks, 
Bless dem all.—Amen—Amen.” 


5 


Daddy Sharper 

We have a stopping place 
Upon the way to school; 

A small log cabin 
Nestled in a cove. 

There Daddy Sharper patiently endures 
His painful days; 

Old, crippled, sick, and almost blind, 

But oh, so cheerful, courteous and kind. 

We children love him, 

Love to bring him small supplies 
Sent from the “big house” store, 

Or still more valued medicine, 

Craved of “Mass’ William”— 

The idol of his slaves, 

Lawyer, physician, friend, 

Our father serves them all. 

He gave this poor old man 
To us, a special charge, 

And he accepts with dignity 
Which never fails some offering in return 
The cabin has an ample hearth of stone 
Where back-logs ever burn. 

There we explore 
For roasted com, 


6 


DADDY SHARPER 


Chestnuts, or sugar yams 
Reserved each day— 

We linger as we may, giving the daily greeting, 
“ Mother sends this, Daddy Sharper, 

How do you feel to-day? ” 

I see the trembling nod 
Which punctuates his slow reply, 

“Po’ly, tang Gawd, my missus, 

Po’ly, tang Gawd.” 


7 


Big John 

We called him “Big John,” 

Mauma’s eldest son; 

And like our mauma 
With a heart of gold, 

He served us with no difference 
In the years 

After the tale of slavery had been told. 

I am the mistress now, 

And “Big John” 

Guards my frail young brother 
As his own. 

One day I hear commotion near the pond 
Which feeds our mill race; 

There I find my brother 
To all appearance drowned, 

And near him “Big John” 

Still, and cold, and gray. 

Both were restored; 

John could not swim, 

With heavy clothes and shoes 
He had plunged in 
To save “Mass’ Eddie” 

Sinking near the dam— 

And should we try to praise him, 

He would say: 


8 


BIG JOHN 


“ W’at dat you t’ink you talkin’ bout, you all? 
Fo’ Gawd, I ain’ done nuttin’, 

I ain’ done nuttin’ ’tall.” 


Chloe 


Chloe is tall, and beautiful, and brown; 

I hear her singing as she strips the leaves 
From the up-standing corn; 

A wild, primeval grace 
Informs her movements; 

A fire-worshipper, 

She lifts her face 
And offers her libation to the sun 
In those rich harmonies 
Peculiar to her race. 

She plays her given part 
In our well-ordered life, 

And yet I always feel in Chloe 
A certain pride of place— 

She showed me once a ring, 

“It cum f’om Af’ica 
Hid in my mudder’s ha’r.” 

A strange and mystic thing 
Hand-wrought of greenish gold, 

Two snakes are intertwined, 

Tail in the mouth of each, 

And Chloe whispering 
A legend of a King— 

How came the ring to be among my treasures? 


10 


CHLOE 


Chloe, near death, 

Summoned her childhood’s friend, 

Eager and strained 
She pressed the ring on me. 

“Missy, no nigger ain’ nebber see dis ring— 
Needer no po’ w’ite trash. 

Dis ring kin mek yo’ free. 

I want it way it b’long, 

Wid quality—” 

And so she died in peace, 

Her end attained. 


11 


















OTHER POEMS 

To Mary Miles McGowan 


To 

Mary Miles McGowan 


To a District Nurse 


In all the ways of suffering 
Her feet are set, 

Laughter and love of life 
Look from her eyes, and yet 
She deals with death and darkness unafraid. 

To Christ in need 
“The ministering angels came.” 

Of her, the sick and sad at heart 
Will say the same, 

And bless the coming of this tall, fair maid. 
****** 


15 


Night-Watch 

In the dark of the moon, 

When the blue-black sky 
Is pricked out in patterns of light, 

I keep watch in the night. 

Dare to stand naked 
I who have sinned, 

All the places of mind and soul 
Swept through by a winnowing wind. 
Come out of space to me, 

Ride on the wind; 

Burn stars to blaze your way! 

I who have sinned 
Shun not your fiercest ray, 

Ask for no ruth; 

Breathless I wait for you 
Soul-searching Truth! 


16 


By Night 

By night the mountains loom immensely high, 
Tempting my thought to scale some pinnacle. 

I love the little rounded hills, 

Soft as a woman’s breasts, 

Leaning against the sky. 

The open sea beckons, and lures, and calls, 
Tempting my thoughts to own her mastery. 

I love the harbor; 

There each welcoming light, 

Doubling itself in rippling lines, 

Laughs at the night. 

By night, by night, beloved, 

The cruel distance looms on land and sea, 
Heart-breaking high and wide. 

I long for restful hills and harbor lights: 

These things mean you to me. 


17 


Remembrance 


I dream, and forget it all, 

But the dream comes back 
On the tide of Remembrance. 

Light, from the gleaming sands 
Beyond a dark line of wrack, 

Holds my sight 

As I walk on the quiet sea, walk quietly. 
Across the wrack of forgotten souls 
Are the out-stretched hands 
Of those held in remembrance. 

When we meet, 

No tide from the hungry heart 
Of the wildest sea, 

Could bring what flood tide of Remembrance 
Brings to me — 

Dreaming of Death is sweet! 


18 


Chopin 


(a) Nocturne —( b) Ballade — 

(a) 

You hear the drowsy challenging of birds. 

The patient trees compose themselves to sleep. 
A wanton breeze intrudes upon their rest. 

There is a movement as of huddling sheep. 

A gallant mocking-bird pours forth such notes, 

As break the silence into shivering rills 
Of sound, which if you listen will return 

In quivering echoes from the answering hills. 

There come repeated calls from mate to mate. 

A rhythmic motion through the ripening wheat: 
The hopeless wailing of a wild beast trapped, 

And always water, lapping at your feet. 

You shudder at the plaint of some small owl 
Upon his own nocturnal business bent. 

Be still, and you may hear a well-loved voice 
Fall on your heart, a meteor, passion spent. 

* * * * * * 

0 b ) 

Is there a woman singing? 

One who would barter with Death 


19 


CHOPIN 


For the breath of a flickering life? 

Is a mother’s voice winging its way 
To some region of light? 

Where the child’s soul drifts 

Until caught in the mesh of that song, 

Which impels its return 

To the arms which yearn to enfold it. 

Sense the woman’s release from the strain, 

As she slowly sinks down, hushing her sobs, 

And drying her tears in the hem of her gown. 

Hush! Hear the low tones of a lover urgently pleading, 
And those of her so besought who would stay the 
murmuring flood: 

Will this whispering end in that kiss extolled as divine? 
The best wine from the wine-press of life: 

Will the wine-press yield wine, or heart’s blood? 

Can you count a wife’s racing pulse beat in time with 
those galloping feet? 

He is gone! the little ones sleep, this hour is her’s, 
set apart— 

Does she hear the mad roar from that hell, the boom 
of the guns, the shriek of the shell? 

She hears only those galloping feet, as they trample 
their way through her heart. 


20 


Lucrezia Bori 


When Bori sings for Italy, 

In rippling rills and trills, 

The romance-laden thrills 
Of the laughter and the tears 
Hoarded up through all the years, 
Fill to overflowing 
Our captivated ears. 

When she sings for France, 

Fine art takes a part 
In the gracious gay duet 
She renders, 

As she stages 

The dance for all the ages, 
Entrancing Minuet. 

And for England— 

How the pure, 

Quaint demureness 
Of each song, 

Goes along 

With the genius of a people, 

Slow and sure, 

Brave and strong. 


21 


LUCREZIA BORI 


When the singing is for Spain! 
The passion and the pain, 

And the grace 
Of that race, 

Tear her heart out 
In the story 
Of the glory 
That was Spain. 


22 


The Stars Look Down on Us 

The stars look down on us, 

Toy earth, and pygmy race; 

Measure life’s little span, 

And wonder at God’s plan; 

We dare return their gaze 
And marvel at God’s ways; 

Eternal suns, his giants, 

Moving eternally, through endless space. 


23 


Spring Tide in the Marsh 

The tide is up in the marsh, 

The full moon pushes her way 
Through the eastern sky; 

She hurries the sunset 
To spill mauve and opal, 

And dye the flood tide 

As it creeps through the green of the marsh. 


24 


A Fancy 

Day is the bride of the Sun, 

They breed the life in the Earth 
And nurture the children of men— 
Night and the Moon are lovers, 
They meet and embrace, 

Are parted, and meet again. 


25 


Pomegranate 

God walked in the garden at dusk, 

The scent of musk-roses pervaded the place, 
And trees and flowering plants 
In a patterned confusion 
Lent grace to the land. 

The first two of our race 
Played like children 
At hiding and seek; 

Eve suddenly came face to face 
With the Lord God of Hosts; 

Scarcely daring to speak, 

Meek and lowly she prayed, 

“Is all well in thy sight, 

Oh, Lord God, is all well? ” 

He looked on her and said, 

“It is well, 

Save a note which I miss 
In all this, 

The motif of red, 

Clear passionate red, 

Without it this pure, pale perfection 
Is seemingly dead.” 

Adam, wearied of waiting, looked forth 
From the great, green, glistening screen 
Which hid him from Eve, 


26 


POMEGRANATE 


Still unnoticed, he grasped 

The stiff, thorny branches with hands 

Impelled by the tide which rose in him, 

And choked him with rage 
In the very presence of God. 

Eve roaming the garden next day, 

Came on flowers, in-set to dark green, 
Flowers pulsing with red, 

Rich, passionate red, 

Where the sharp thorns had been, 

And a fruit which seemed good in her sight; 
She ate, and accepted her fate 

As the mother of men. 

* * * * 

To this day pomegranate in flower 
Is symbolic of passion and power. 


27 


An April Day 

This is an April day! 

Between the showers 

The Sun-god blazes out, as who should say, 

“ Come forth, come forth, ye flowers, 

This is an April day!” 

This is an April day! 

The wind sifts through the pines, 

The cardinal renews last season’s lay; 

His mate nests in those vines 
Which to his love-lilt sway. 

This is an April day! 

Youth’s ready tears are falling, 

Such is Youth’s way. 

Mirth clears the skies like sunshine, blythely calling 
“This is an April day!” 

—By courtesy of the Poetry Society of South Carolina 


28 


The Cardinal Bird 


Oh, Cardinal bird! 

How came there a flute in your throat? 

Each full, flexible note 
Seems to seek a mate eager, yet shy— 

“ God dropped the flute from the sky.” 

Who painted you palpitant red 
And crested your head? 

Loyal knight of garden and grove, 

Where you flash like a flame— 

“ Baptized at the cross is our claim.” 

Are you choir-master? 

Each morn to assemble the birds, 

And lead in the melodies 

Born to the swing 

Of Night’s wings in her flight— 

“Easter morning the angels said ‘sing’.” 


29 


Flower Voices 


If a lily were to sing, 

How pure, how white 
Would be the tones, 

How clear each ringing note 
From her slim throat. 

If a rose were granted voice 
In color-tones, 

How rich, how full, 

How subtly strong 
Would be the song. 

If a golden-tongued hybiscus 
Should unfold herself in song, 

The palpitating, saffron-colored flame 
Would rise to heights divine 
Warming human hearts like wine, 
Triumphant tone and color 
To acclaim. 

***** 


30 


Wild Roses 


Scented splashes of wild-rose pink 
Spilled from a quivering sky, 
When rain breaks through 
Before sunset’s hue 
Will consent to die. 


31 


Mist 


At night mist lies close to Earth, 

Like a wet garment 

Clinging to one wearied with swimming. 
Morning brings strength renewed, 
Wide-flung arms 
Tear the mist into shreds, 

Lost in the eastern glow 
Brimming to overflow 

And drench Earth in sunshine. 

* * * * * 


32 


Night’s Diamond Ring 

The dusky queen has lost her ring, 

On the open floor of the sky, 

Faint circlet of light 
With a setting of gold, 

From which has fallen a diamond star, 
See! it lies on the floor nearby; 

The queen is careless, 

Again and again she loses her ring, 
Again and again 
The children of men 
Exclaim, 

See! the new moon and the star, 

How close together they are! 


33 


The Moon Slips through the Clouds 

See how the moon slips through the clouds! 

They finger strangely at her shining robes, 

And as from silver strings, 

High, weird, winged harmonies 
Take flight through the night. 

Far down below, the sea-soaked fisher folk 
Hear these and prophesy— 

“How the wind whistles and sings, 

The moon will fill tonight— 

Look at that mackerel sky, 

Foul weather is what it brings.” 

See! How the moon slips through the clouds 
In fright of the night. 


34 


At Sunset 


My western window 
Looks from under trees 
Across an open square 
To where a fountain plays: 
There, suddenly revealed, 

A swarm of sparkling bees 
Assault a crystal comb, 

In which, like molten honey, 

The sun’s last rays 

Are for a moment sealed. 


35 


Trees in Winter 

Who loves the trees when the first faint shadow of 
green appears; 

A wood-nymph’s veil, 

Lost in her tremulous haste to escape from Spring, 
Who accounted her frail? 

Not I! Give me the trees clad in brown tints, 

As soft as the brown on a thrush’s breast— 

While they stand in the infinite calm of passionless 
waiting, 

I love them best. 

Who loves the trees when they hide 
As did Adam and Eve in the garden of old, 
Fashioning garments of leaves, 

Lest Jehovah, perhaps, should consider them bold? 
Not I! Give me the trees unashamed 
In their clean, naked beauty and strength, 

Or draped in windings of snow, 

As a sculptor would drape their sinuous length. 

Who loves the trees when arrayed in magnificent robes 
For the sacrifice. 

Crimson and green and gold, each vying with each 
To offer the richest prize? 

Not I! Give me the trees 
Pencilled as delicate etchings against the sky; 

Their rooted strength spelling out, in reserve of force, 
Life dying but seems to die! 


36 


Parnassia 


(A delicate white flower, native in the Blue Ridge ranges) 
Roaming the mountain ridge 
In search of distant view or prospect wild, 

I chanced upon a most exquisite flower; 

A lovely human child. 

No mountain laurel this! 

Nor autumn’s royal gift, the golden rod; 

Her mien suggests the dainty bloom which starred 
The hill the Muses trod. 

Shield, as of Innocence, 

Upholds the slender stem in perfect grace; 

The tracery of God’s own hand is seen, 

Alike in flower and face. 


37 


The Swamp 

The moon goes into the swamp 
With an innocent air, 

She bathes, the water seems clear, 

And ripples about her 
Like glistening hair; 

Night beckons me on, 

And soon I follow the moon. 

The sun seems to shun the swamp, 

I only see shadow; 

The water is thick and brown 
And day seems to frown 
On my venturing in, 

As though shadow were sin. 
***** 

Shadow must be, 

And sin, 

The question is, 

Venturing in. 

—By courtesy of the Poetry Society of South Carolina 


38 


St. Helena Island 


St. Helena! For centuries untold 
You’ve nestled here at Carolina’s feet 
Braving the ocean, yet not so very bold, 
Since your out-standing guards, 

“The Hunting Islands”, 

Link up a saving zone 
To offer you. 

Regardless of this belt 
The tide comes slipping through 
Like loving hands! 

You yield in ecstacy, 

Knowing that strands 
Held by the Fates, 

Return your roving lover to your feet. 
****** 


39 


Stuartia 


Stuart, studying plant life, 

Came on this unknown flower; 

Like pale Magnolia buds 
In fragile miniature, 

Crowning St. Helena 

For one short week in spring; 

The four cupped petals hold a purple glow, 

As though the flower loneliness must know, 

And would pulse from its heart some living thing. 

Sometimes, held careless, in a careless crowd 
The eyes fall on a face 
Which is a thing apart, 

Clutching the heart with loveliness and grace. 
Such is the lovely flower 
Known to bloom only there, 

And there but in one place. 


40 


Dreaming 

She lies between twin streams 

Which bring her tribute where they meet, 

As lovers lay their offerings at the feet of one beloved. 
Her stately homes, her many domes and towers, 

Her old tiled roofs where ragged sky-lines creep, 
Bewitch the mind as Venice does, 

Venice, with all her memories enshrined, 

And water-lapped to sleep, and dream, and sleep. 

So sleeping, she dreams of her past: 

She bled in the talons of War, 

She shuddered to earthquake, 

And shook to the hurricane’s blast. 

Ghosts walk on the moonless, sheer nights 
When the quivering lights in the sky 
Seem to vie with her harbor lights. 

Have they whispered a spell 
The palmetto trees dare not tell, 

As they gossip and nod at her portals? 

Are they thinking to shatter the poise 
Of one listed among the immortals? 

Still dreaming, a treasured gem 

In the grasp of Tradition withholding the key, 

She lies like a jewelled clasp 

Hand-wrought for the trailing robes of the restless sea. 


41 


Why Summon Sleep? 

Why summon sleep, when I may keep 
A wholesome assignation with myself, 
In the cool plenitude of darkness, 
Which summer nights 
Hold for a heat-worn world? 

The days are brazen-bold; 

No place in them for thought, 

No place for thoughts, 

Such as slip shyly out 
In the face of Darkness. 

Memories come, 

Crowding in life-like pageantry; 

By day memories are ghosts, 

Shadows of ghosts, 

Shunning themselves! 

And what a space for prayer; 

God and the soul 
A vigil keep, 

Why summon sleep? 


42 


The Long-Leaf Pines 

Great fretted columns, rising free and tall 
Uphold dark, incensed shrines, 

Which in late Spring 
Are furnished forth with waxen tapers: 

On some mild, moonless night, 

Pale lunar moths drift up on mystic wing 
And light them all, 

To celebrate the Resurrection in every growing thing. 


43 


Creation 


Dream a quick dream, 

And from the nearest clay 
Fashion some semblance 
Of the dim-visioned thing. 

Around this embryo 
Let thought and fancy stay 
Like mothering angels, 
Night and day; 

With brooding of soft wings, 
Pressure of wishful hands, 

In such caresses 
As will surely bring 
Fruition; life to the clay, 
Voice, and the power to sing. 


44 


Life 


I pour out my heart to excess 
In a riotous wealth; 

I seek to express my soul: 

Look on from your hole in the wall 
Hermit-miser of Life! 

Shut in from the strife, 

From the pain and the bliss 
Of the ultimate kiss; 

Shut in from the rain, 

And the snow, and the night: 

Stay in, and worship your light; 

Here I stand 
Drinking Life to the lees! 

Better squeeze the last drop from the fruit 
And throw down the rind, 

Than to hoard it, and find in the end 
Only rind. 


45 


Dust to Dust 


I love the earth, 

The actual soil 
On which we tread, 

From which God gives us daily bread: 
I love the clay, 

The loam, 

The shifting sands, 

The crumbling brown and chrome 
Of new-ploughed fields— 

Better than these, 

I love my garden soil 
Where I may dig with my own hands; 
Knowing it dust of my dust 
Which will reclaim me, 

When Life’s frail hour-glass 
Has run its sands. 


46 


Translation 


When we break the second chrysalis 
In groping to the light, 

Will new birth 

Bring new thoughts and new desires, 

Quit of all their earthly fires? 

Will we lose the common round 
Of day and night? 

Credit not that souls live on 
And hearts expire! 

Should the Angel at the gates of Death require 
Such a toll as this, 

The soul would surely find a way to die, 
Sooner than forget 
That you are you, 

And I am I. 


47 


The Cypress Swamp 

Some witchery lures me to a cypress swamp; 
In spring, 

When quivering loveliness of coming leaves 
Shadows forth fluttering lids 
On young eyes wakening.— 

At summer’s height, 

When folds on folds of green 
Compose a screen, 

The stems are silver, 

Collecting filtered light about the knees 
Of these strange trees.— 

In autumn, 

All the henna in the world 
Seems caught in feathery tufts, 

Brushing the sky 

To bring the blueness down, 

And with the eastern dye 
To tint an Indian summer— 

When winter comes 
And all the swamp is bare, 

The witch-craft seems to hold me ever closer; 
The shadows in the water 
Show each line 
As on a cryptic chart, 

And every smallest finger on each limb 
Plays tunes upon my heart. 


48 


Mistletoe 


Pray, what is Mistletoe? 

Are these strange, dull-green leaves 
Congealed regrets? 

And are the berries tears 
Transmuted into pearls, 

As hopes are shaped from fears? 

These may be memories, 

Set free 

To cluster lovingly 
On each denuded tree: 

Memories nurtured unseen, 

When Summer lends the trees 
Complete attire 
Of usual green. 


49 


Magnolia Gardens 

Cloud-like scarves, 

In shades of lilac, 

Drape the trees 
In second mourning; 

These, 

Freed by Winter’s death, 
Demurely welcome Spring: 
Moved by his roving breath 
They don light veils of green, 
Complete awakening. 

Dependent, dark-green vines 
Trail up the steadfast pines; 
Spaced all along their stems 
Are dead-white, half-blown buds 
Like novices 

Climbing a convent stair, 

Each whispering a prayer. 

Beyond, where ample robes 
Of white and gold 
Fall fold on fold, 

Are seen rare jewels 

Set in fine enameled green, 

Forgot 

In Winter’s plight 
When taking flight; 


50 


MAGNOLIA GARDENS 


Camellias, 

Which in this favored spot 
Crowned pale December queen. 

When Spring 
Would prove his power 
A miracle is wrought; 

Each of uncounted stars, 

Points of God’s thought, 

Is an azalea flower, 

Robbing the sun 
Of red in every shade, 

Save where the constellations gleam 
In full white light arrayed. 


51 


Acknowledgment 

Grateful acknowledgment is hereby made to the 
Poetry Society of Charleston for their courtesy in grant¬ 
ing permission to reprint “An April Day” and “The 
Swamp” y previously published in the Year-Book of the 
Society. 


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